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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29263821">The stories we tell</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persistent_Worldsaver/pseuds/Persistent_Worldsaver'>Persistent_Worldsaver</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood &amp; Manga</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, I wanted Scar to have more story, One thing being the importance of storytelling in Ishvalan culture, So I had to make up a bunch since we only got to know 5 percent from canon and hope people like it, This man deserved more, as I mentioned in my only other work, my sister told me it should be a good idea to tag this as, the Ishvalans deserved more, this piece is so short but I still want to share it, which also mentions me wanting to make a longer story one day</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 13:21:06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,447</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29263821</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persistent_Worldsaver/pseuds/Persistent_Worldsaver</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>We all have pieces we hold on to.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Scar &amp; Scar’s family</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The stories we tell</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He loved hearing stories as a child.<br/> Whenever he got the chance, he'd sit down and patiently wait for them to begin. He'd been lucky to live surrounded by them every day. In school, on the streets and especially at home, he could always find someone willing to tell one, whether it was made up or something that had really happened. It was difficult telling sometimes, but he didn't mind. As long as it was engaging, he could sit still for hours on end listening to one tale after another.<br/> His eyes had a special shine during those times.</p><p>His aunts and uncles would never pass up an opportunity to show off their storytelling talents while visiting, often ending up in strange competitions of using the most dramatic gestures and archaic words possible. His mother was calmer, but she knew how to grow suspense, even if it was a story they'd heard hundreds of times before. Everyone was overjoyed whenever she began, and he felt fortunate hearing her bedtime stories every night.<br/> A few times when he was young, they’d see a storyteller somewhere and stop to listen. She would often mention how much she had wanted to be one too.<br/>"Everyone told me I was incredible and could become famed, but of course my parents thought it would be disastrous. 'How can you even consider that? You know what happens to those women and men, they either get recognition for five years and then fwap-fwap, they get forgotten. Or they get by for five years with a single shoe walking in the middle of nowhere, lose that shoe and start wishing they had listened to their parents for once in their life, before Ishvala tiredly sends a caravan to save them for the fifth time that month. Those people should be keeping a little patch on their garden where they can stand and declaim, and then promptly return to actual work once they're done!' "<br/> He and his brother laughed for a long time the first time they heard it. She had a way with her tone that always brought out the emotion she wanted.<br/>  He wished he could hear her laughter again.</p><p> </p><p>His brother was a bit more awkward, despite being older. "You’re way more creative than me, brother. I just don’t feel like I’d do any good if I tried, but I really like hearing your stories!"<br/> If he wanted to practice, his older brother was always ready to listen. He encouraged him at every opportunity, from the first time he told a story to their cousins, to the first time he created his own tale.<br/>  Even his brother’s friends would greet him as 'the little storyteller', having heard about his talent so many times.<br/>"You know, I bet that you'll travel the whole country with those stories one day!"<br/>His brother's praise had always been genuine. He would always be there, and that was enough.</p><p>His father loved telling jokes. He preferred lighter stories, ones that made your day less bleak. He could walk up to a person he'd seen twice in his life, and walk away as they laughed a goodbye. One time, he asked him why.<br/>"Sometimes I notice people being a little sad. If it looks like they might feel better after some laughing, I want to make sure they get to laugh! I learned it from you, little boy: if you can help someone, you should!"<br/> He felt equal parts pride and embarrassment, since his father's dramatic pose accompanying the speech caught people's attention. But he still smiled, as his father just laughed at their confused faces.</p><p> </p><p>Growing older, he was surprised to see how many were indifferent to the storytellers. His parents always enjoyed listening, but some saw it as a dying tradition too difficult to uphold. The wanderers were having trouble traveling between Ishvalan region the last couple of years, restrictions and military controls spreading more and more each year. Offering them meals and a place to sleep became more of a strain to the residents too, people already struggling under the hardening atmosphere. It would often leave the tellers waiting for an offer of lodging long after their last story had ended. Ultimately, someone would always give in and invite them to their home. It would be unthinkable to let a fellow Ishvalan sleep on the street.</p><p> </p><p>He remembered the last time a storyteller came to their village. He looked so tired, only having a simple wood prosthetic and a staff to support him. When he first began, many would only stop for a minute before continuing. He couldn't place emphasis on the right words, he stumbled with the pronunciation, talking too fast in one moment and repeating the same words in the next.<br/>Everyone felt it was more courteous to ignore him, sparing the mercy of giving him a few coins. He saw everyone passing by. The man had quieted now, looking at the ground with hunched shoulders and fidgeting with his staff to stand up straight. He began thinking that he should give up this attempt.<br/> He didn't expect a fifteen-year old boy with glowing red eyes to walk up and promptly sit down right in front of him, waiting for a continuation. Surprised, he looked at the child, and was met with such a determined look it stunned him.<br/>  He stared quietly for a minute. Then, with a straightened back and a deep breath, he began once more.<br/> He still fumbled a little, but the improvement was clear throughout his story. The change in his tone and act was remarkable.<br/> People began crowding again, enjoying the nice break in their day to day-life as they listened. Sharing a moment with familiar strangers, laughing together, sighing together, cheering together. It had been a long time since someone last visited.<br/> When he finished, there were many pleased nods and even some uplifting cheers as he thanked his audience. When everyone dispersed again, the man was happy thinking about his sister, knowing he wouldn't arrive empty-handed this time.<br/> The last person to leave was a young boy with a satisfied smile.</p><p> </p><p>When he heard what happened to the storyteller, the world had slowly started to unravel around them.</p><p>A man had been stopped at a border. As the man waited for the soldiers' approval under the burning sun, he was left thinking. About his sister and her children. About a stubborn boy he'd met several years ago. He thought about stories and why they mattered so much. He thought about many things, as he tried to ignore the heat and his unsteady footing. Maybe he should start wearing a shoe on his prosthetic leg again, to balance it out.<br/> As the man waited, there was an attack.<br/>  Eastern rebels that couldn't be identified. Open fire from two sides.<br/> He had been standing. He had been thinking.</p><p>When the dust had settled, there was a single shoe laying in the sand.</p><p>He wouldn’t return to see the young man waiting for him.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The young man wouldn't forget. Neither the stories or the storytellers.<br/> He didn’t forget that love as he grew older. He didn't, but the time between each story grew longer and longer.</p><p> </p><p>When the war began, it was relegated to the back of their minds.</p><p>His mother's laugh was heard less frequently. His father's shine dulled. His brother put faith into things he shouldn't.</p><p>His aunts and uncles would ask him with sad smiles if he still liked hearing their stories, and that they might tell one later. But as the evening passed, it was forgotten among the talk about the new traveling restrictions, the problems with finding more and more things as the years went by, and discussions of whether they should try escaping or hope that it all would end soon.</p><p> </p><p>It had been a long time since he heard someone tell a story.</p><p> </p><p>The seventh year was reaching its end.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>After the war, he had no one to listen to. There was no one who would hear him.<br/>So he told them to himself.</p><p> </p><p>Every night, he would sit down and try to tell a different one. His brother’s favorite. The ones his teachers had read. All the stories his mother and family had invented. Even if he only remembered fragments and pieces, or a single line and the first half of one. Even if he could recount it from heart or he struggled for hours trying to piece it together. Whether it was one he had given brief attention or one that had become a piece of his heart.</p><p>It was the only thing he could do.</p><p> </p><p>He had nothing else left.</p>
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